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In vain ; for a superior Force
Apply'd at Bo tom, stops its Course,
Doom'd ever in suspence to dwell,
'Tis now no Kettle, but a Bell.

A Wooden Jack, which had almost
Lot, by disuse, the Art to roast,
A sudden Alteration feels,
Increas’d by new Intestine Wheels; ;
And what exal's the Wonder more,
The Number made the Motion flow'r.
The Flyer, tho't had leaden Feet,
Turn’d round so quick, you scarce could see't ;
But slackend by some secret Pow'r,
Now hardly moves an inch an Hour.
The Jack and Chimney near ally'd,
Had never left each other's Side ;
The Chimney to a Steeple grown,
The Jack would not be left alone ;
But up against the Steeple rear'd,
Becanie a Clock, and still adher'd';
And still its Love to Houshold Cares,
By a shrill Voice at Noon declares,
Warning the Cook-Maid, not to burn
That Roast-Meat which it cannot turn.

The Groaning Chair began to crawl,
Like an huge Snail along the Wall ;
There ftruck aloft in pubiick View ;
And with small Change, a Pulpit grew.

The Porringers, that in a Row Hung high, and made a glitering Show, To a less noble Substance chang’d, Were-now but leathern Buckets rang’d.

The Ballads pasted on the Wall,
Of joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood ;
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in Picture, Size, and Letter ;
And high in Order plac'd, describe
The Heraldry of every Tribe.

A BEDSTEAD of the Antique Mode,
Compact of Timber, many a Load,
Such as our Ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos’d into Pews:
Which still their ancient Nature keep,
By lodging Folks dispos’d to Sleep.

The Cottage, by such Feats as these,
Grown to a Church by just Degrees,
The Hermits then desir'd their Hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon having paus'd a While,
Return'd 'em Thanks in homely Style ;
Then said, my House is grown so fine,
Methinks I still wou'd call it mine :
I'm old, and fain wou'd live at Eale,
Make me the Parfon, if you please.

He spoke, and presently he feels
His Grazier's Coat fall down his Heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each Arm a Pudding Sleeve ;
His Waistcoat to a Casrock grew,
And both assum'd a fable Hue;
But being old, continu'd just
As thread-bare, and as full of Dust.
His Talk was now of Tythes and Dues ;
He smok'd his Pipe and read the News ;
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vamp'd in the Preface and the Text;
Ai Chrift'nings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart;
Wish'd Women might have Children fast,
And thought whose Sow had farrow'd latt ;
Againit Disenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right divine.
Found his Head fill'd with many a System,
But Classick Authors, he never mist 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a Parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on.
Inttead of Home-spun Coifs were seen
Good Pinners edg’d with Colberteen ;
Her Petticoat transform'd a-pace,
Became black Satin flounc'd with Lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down,
Twas M.dam, in her Grogram Gowa.


Philemon was in great Suprize,
And hardly could believe his Eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look so prim ;
And she admir'd as much at Him.

Thus, happy in their Change of Life,
Were fev'ral Years this Man and Wife ;
When on a Day, which prov'd their last.
Discoursing o'er old Stories past,
They went by Chance amidst their Talk,
To the Church Yard to take a Walk ;
When Baucis hastily cry'd out,
My Dear, I see your Forehead sprout !
Sprout, quoth the Man, What's this you tell us ?
I hope you don't believe me Jealous :
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really, yours is budding too
Nay, now I cannot ftir my Foot ;
It feels as if 'twere taking Root.
DESCRIPTION would but tire

In short, they both were turn'd to Yews.

OLD Goodman Dobson of the Green
Remembers he the Trees has seen ;
He'll talk of them from Noon till Night,

with Folks to shew the Sight;.
On Sundays, after Ev'ning Pray'r,
He gathers all the Parish there ;
Points out the Place of either Yew ;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew.


Till once a Parlon of our Town,
To mend his Barn cut Baucis down ;
At which 'tis hard to be believ'd,
How much the other Tree was griev'd,
Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was stunted;
So, the next Parson stubb'd and burnt it.


SHOWER. In Imitation of
VIRGIL's Georg.

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AREFUL Observers may foretel the Hour

(By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show'r. While Rain depends, the pensive Cat gives o'er Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tail no more. Returning Home at Night, you'll find the Sink Strike your

offended Sense with double Stink. JE

you be wise, then go not far to dine, You'll spend in Coach hire more than save in Wine. A coming Show'r your fhooting Corns presage, Old Aches throb, your hollow Tooth will rage, Saint’ring in Coffee-House is Dulman seen ; He damns the Climate, and complains of Spleen.

Mean while the South, rising with dabbled Wings, A fable Cloud a-thwart the Welkin flings,


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